


My Own Private Riot

by voodoochild



Category: Lie to Me (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gillian gets her control back after the break-in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Own Private Riot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle X, for the prompts, "control" and "exhaustion", and for kink_bingo, for the prompt "striptease/exposure". Takes place mid-"Delinquent", so consider yourself warned for major spoilers for that episode. Title from the Thea Gilmore song of the same name.

Her ears are still ringing.

It's stupid; she's seen Cal take punch after punch and get up. She knows the human body's tolerance for pain, and Ava had certainly gotten more roughed up than Gillian herself had. She should be stronger than this - it's just a bruise on her face and a few rope burns on her wrists. It'll do no good to sit on her couch with her arms around her knees, listening to Cal scream at Torres to go find Ava and order Loker to put Gillian's house back the way it should be and threaten Reynolds if he tells the police anything.

She should be doing something, shouldn't she?

Loker is cleaning up the china cabinet - the gang had taken a few of the crystal wineglasses, smashed one of the dinner plates - and a sugar bowl slips from his hands and crashes to pieces on the wooden floor. She stifles her instinctive cry of surprise, but not enough. Cal and Loker and Torres and Reynolds are looking at her like she's going to do the same thing, shatter into pieces, and she can't do this any more.

She only gets halfway up the stairs before she hears Cal yelling again, throwing everyone out and following her. Loker and Torres leave quietly, Reynolds more loudly, talking into his cell phone, but the door closes and Cal catches up to her in the upstairs hallway.

"It's all right, love," he says, conciliatory. Soft. The way he is when she gets hurt. "Just going to be jumpier than usual for a bit. I won't sneak up on you for a week or two, then, eh?"

And she's tired of crying into Cal's shirt, tired of him holding her up. She just wants to lash out and feel like she's capable of being anything but a crying mess. Her fist slams against her bedroom door, knocking it back into the wall with a bang. His breath catches as he stands there, watching her. She's trembling again and she hates it, hates the weakness.

"Gill, look at me."

She sets her jaw, refuses to start crying again, and meets his eyes. Everything about his expression is open, honest, what he wants her to see. That he's angry on her behalf. That he's worried about her. That he wants to take care of her.

"What d'you need? I can stay if you need me to. Em's at Zoe's tonight. Or I can go, if you need to be alone."

She _needs_ a way to strike back, and he's as good a target as any. Her voice comes out low, cracked, but thankfully less hysterical than she's sounded since the attack.

"Stay. But don't - you can't -"

He understands, though. Knows what she's trying to tell him and steps back out of her space, dropping his hands to his sides. "You're calling the shots, plain and simple. Tell me what to do."

"Anything?" she asks, needing consent. This isn't something they do; not that she's unfamiliar with kink, and not that Cal isn't (because everyone in the universe knows what he and Zoe used to get up to), and not that they've never slept together (once, just after her divorce, under the influence of a _lot_ of tequila) but they try to keep their personal lives less complicated.

He spreads his hands, palms up; surrender. "Whatever you need, love."

A shiver goes through her - dozens of possibilities, things she could make him do. He doesn't have an off-button, she thinks, she could rip him to pieces and he'd let her. If she needed to, he'd let her.

"Start by going into the bedroom. Shirt off. On your knees in front of the mirror."

Something sparks in his eyes, but he follows her instructions. She shuts the door behind her as she follows him in, leans against the wood as he pulls his shirt off and kneels in front of her mirror and vanity. She lets him stay there a few moments, enough to take a few deep breaths and figure out what her next step is.

"Two rules, Cal, before we start. First is that you tell me if I go too far-"

"No chance of that," he says, and she crosses to him, grabs a handful of hair and pulls his head back.

"Did I say you could talk?" He swallows, shakes his head. "Tell me if I go too far, but other than that, you don't get to talk, all right?" At his nod, she continues. "Number two, it goes both ways. I might ask you to hurt me. I don't know. I need you to trust that I can handle it and to tell you if I can't. Yes or no?"

He looks up at her, complete submission written across his features. It looks predictably out of place, but she likes it on him. Wants to see how far it really goes.

"Yes."

"Good." She releases her hold on his hair, walks around him to perch on top of the vanity, then motions for him to stand up. "Undress me. Nothing else, and don't tear anything."

He nods, getting to his feet and reaching for the buttons of her shirt. He starts at the bottom, sliding them open one by one, keeping his eyes on hers the entire time. The care he exhibits is tremendous, all careful control and gentle touch. Each inch of her skin he reveals - navel, stomach, chest, silk-covered breasts, throat - he gives a brief caress to. Enough to tease, but not breaking any of her rules.

Sliding the shirt from her shoulders, he starts on her pants, thumbing open the button and drawing the zipper down, easing them down her legs. She steps out of them, and he holds a hand under her elbow, making sure she keeps her balance. He bites back a hiss at the bruise where her back hit the counter, the cut on her leg where a broken piece of glass got in. She's glad he doesn't dwell on them, just slips her boots off and throws her socks on top of them in a pile.

It's a moment before he turns back to her, and she almost can't breathe for the look in his eyes. He loves her - she's always known that - but this isn't just love, this is possession. Someone hurt what belongs to him.

"Gill-" he starts, but she shakes her head.

"Keep going."

His hands slide around her back, and she doesn't even mind his blatant ploy to stay as physically close as possible, because he's so gentle as he unsnaps her bra, easing her arms out of the straps. Last is her underwear - it's pink and ridiculous and doesn't match her black-and-white bra in the slightest - which he tugs off her hips and down her legs with perfect care. Once she's completely stripped, she steps back, boosting herself onto the counter of her vanity.

"I want your mouth on me."

He freezes, body taut with arousal and eyes widened. "Tell me how."

She forgives his disobedience because it's a valid request and because the picture he makes right now is lovely. Eyes locked on hers, shoulders set, hands at his sides, unrepentantly hard for her. It's not every day you can contain that kind of energy.

"Your mouth, Cal. On my vagina. Fast, slow, hard, soft - it doesn't matter. Just make me feel good."

"What about my hands?" he asks.

"They're going to stay behind your back, or we're done."

"All right," he says, and laces his hands behind his back, dropping onto the stool in front of her.

She braces herself on her hands and spreads her legs for him, the first touch of his mouth to her (a light kiss, just below her belly) causing her to gasp. It turns into a moan when he moves lower, and his tongue flicks out to lick the wetness from her. Any preconceived notions she'd had about his prowess at oral sex are shattered when he takes a breath, presses his mouth closer, and proceeds to drive her absolutely insane.

Fuck, now she's _really_ regretting never doing this with him before.

Because he does this like he loves it, like he can't imagine doing anything else. He uses his mouth, teasing little licks and nips, slow, drawn-out sucks to her clit, shallow dips of his tongue into her that make her moan and beg for more. And beg she does, along with explicitly direct him ("no, harder" and "yes, again with your tongue, just like that") to give her what she needs.

Her hands lace in his hair, tugging, and he shocks her by growling into her skin. She pulls harder, and he redoubles his efforts, sucking on her clit the way she likes and licking tight little circles around it. Her heart's racing, she's almost shouting now, and he pushes her over the edge with a hum that vibrates over her skin.

He looks up, mouth red and wet and perfectly obscene, and his voice comes out scraped-gravel wrecked. "Let me do that again. Let me use my hands. Please."

She nods - can't speak, not quite yet - and he pulls her right to the edge of the counter, wrapping his hands around her legs and licking the dripping wetness from her thighs. He makes her come again, this time with two of his fingers pressing sharp and perfect inside her and his tongue flickering over her clit. He immediately lets go of her, lets her get her breathing back under control and look up at him from sleepy, sated eyes.

"I - you're - tha-"

"Don't you dare," he says, stopping her protests that she hasn't gotten him off and that she's grateful for what he's done. The control has swung back to him, and they both know it.

She doesn't care.

Pulling her to her feet, he guides her over to her bed, tucks her underneath the covers, then strips off his jeans, curling up warm and solid behind her. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck and wraps his arms around her.

"Sleep, all right? I'm not going anywhere."

She believes him.


End file.
